


[Discontinued]

by Thisisivyleague



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-07
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-31 19:17:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6484261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thisisivyleague/pseuds/Thisisivyleague
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is just a test, tags and other chapters will be added later</p>
    </blockquote>





	[Discontinued]

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a test, tags and other chapters will be added later

In the blazing month of August of 1954, Joe Trohman considered himself old enough and wise enough to truly understand just how under appreciated and underestimated he was, as an eighteen year old teen writhing in the black leather world of greasers and subterraneans, punks and reds. He could think ten more original thoughts by his first lazy jack off in the morning than half these assholes had in the whole damn school year, and Joe knew it. Joe was ahead of his fucking time, and he deserved better than these Mickey Mouse wannabes. On the outside, Joe was cool and aloof, and that was how he was meant to be. But inside, he was a god damn fream of a kid who had too many genius thoughts tumbling around than could be healthy. Ignorance was bliss, but Joe Trohman? He was wide awake.

He was also fucking tired of being in the hospital waiting room. Brendon had gotten into a brawl with some preps and come out with a broken nose and two missing fingers. Two whole fucking fingers, gone from the knuckle. Dumbest part was that it had been Brendon's knife, the switchblade that had been snatched from his thigh by the ringleader of the Browndell High school, the rival of Cooperstown high, and constant fucking thorn in his and the Misfit’s side. The fucking fights were the worst, and Pete always told them that fight alone was dying alone, so never fucking fight with a pansy while you’re stag.

But Brendon was a fucking idiot, and Joe had only arrived on the scene in time to find Brendon bent over in a ball against the wall, getting his face kicked in by a bunch of jocks. Joe was kinda short, but all fists and teeth, and had scared them off after launching himself onto the back of the biggest brute, tearing into him with his nails and showing he was so fucking crazy that he wasn’t afraid of getting his ass handed to him. Oddly enough, a lot of assholes found that sort of recklessness to be intimidating, and they’d run off. Now Joe was int he hospital after bringing a paper bag in with Brendon's two fingers, and been given a halfway promise that they could maybe sew them back on.  
He tapped his toes erratically on the linoleum floor and wondered if Ryan was coming over tonight for dinner and homework. He’d bought anew skin mag that he planned on rubbing in Ryan’s face whenever he saw the fucker next. Joe let out a loud, heavy sigh, and let his head fall back to hit the drywall with a resounding thump. The nurse at the check in desk narrowed her eyes at him like he was in some sort of library. Joe just smirked and winked at the pretty doll, still settling for aloof, rather than enlightened.  
The swinging metal doors moved out and Joe looked to the doors, wondering if Brendon was gonna walk through, wearing that dumbass grin and showing Joe his newly re-sewn fingers, like losing limbs was something to be proud of.  
But it wasn’t Brendon.  
Joe narrowed his eyes and knew he knew this kid from somewhere, somewhen. He was a greasy little fucker, with long brownish orange hair that covered his face, grey eyes and a cute nose, paint on his shirt, and visible curves visible although he was wearing jeans. They weren’t bad, though. He liked girls like that, after all. Gave him more to hold on to, and he really loved watching his fingers sink in their soft skin as they held on to him just as tightly.  
This guy, though, he was obviously one of those creative types. He had charcoal all up the side of his arm that Joe could see, just before the guy slung on a jean jacket and went to the front desk to mumble something Joe couldn’t hear, regardless of how quiet he was. Joe snorted and pulled out his due backs, pushing out a stick from the bottom and lighting it like he didn’t care that he would get kicked out, which he didn’t. He could wait for Brendon outside the hospital, anyways. The greasy boy kept talking, all hushed and secretive and shy. Joe didn't see the point in hiding anything at a hospital. They’d find out everything about you, down to your fingernails and sperm count.  
The kid finally turned around and made to leave, but his eyes froze when he saw the cigs in Joe's hand. His bright eyes flickered between Joe and the pack, going back and forth like he was deciding what to do, worrying his lower lip till it was bright red and shiny. Joe just raised a challenging brow, though he kept his legs open to show he was open. 

The guy finally shuffled forward, still hiding behind his hair. “Look, I don’t do this,” he said, voice gravelly and cracking at the edges. “I don’t talk to people, I don’t even fucking like people at all, but it’s been a rough day, and I haven’t had a smoke in nearly forty-eight hours, so— could I maybe bum one off’a ya?”  
Joe smirked as he smoked. “What’s in it for me?”  
“Full pack,” the guy replied automatically. “Next time I see you, and I will see you. You go to my school, we’ll have a run in.” He paused, then gestured to the due back again. “So? Please?”  
Joe shrugged, pushed out another cig, then held it up as an offering. When the guy reached over, Joe saw his knuckles were bruised and split and bleeding, though they looked clean, like they’d been freshly sanitized. Joe chanced a real look upwards, and saw a huge bruise across the entire forehead of this guy. It looked pretty damn bad, like something Ryan would’ve had when he was younger.  
The kid took the cigarette quickly, though he narrowed his eyes when he saw Joe was looking at him, and took a step back, ducking his head to better hide his face. Joe didn’t say anything, only held out his lighter. The guy quickly lit his cigarette and took a long drag, expression turning into something like sex when he finally was able to poison his lungs.  
“Andy,” the guy said once he was done killing himself slowly. Joe wasn’t judging, because it was his habit too, but fuck, was it a dumb habit, according to skeptics like Joe. He wondered if Andy also was growing aware of how deadly this shit was, or if he was just a headless, unborn nobody like everyone else. “My name’s Andy.”  
“Joe,” he replied wth a cool nod of his head.  
Andy returned the nod. “I’ll give you a pack,” he said. Then he left like he hadn’t wanted to be there at all. Joe knew he hadn’t, but the nicotine was just too good.  
The metal doors open, and Brendon made his entrance with a boisterous laugh, arms swinging wide.  
“Only got one back!” he cackled. “Wait till the group sees this shit!”  
Joe just rolled his eyes and got up to take Brendon home so he wouldn’t get sidetracked illegally drown himself in the nearest bar. He had homework to get to, anyways.  
. . .  
“He got one finger back?” Ryan asked as he lounged half on, half off Joe’s bed, spine bent at nearly ninety degrees like something fucking sinister. Joe nodded as he wrote harsh words to his English teacher cleverly disguised as a a short story romance that was due for class. They were already at the end of the year, only a few weeks from graduation, but Joe had been suffering from a need to get the hell out of high school since freshman year, when Pete had punched him across the jaw for spilling his pop on his jeans, and they’d become friends. “Only one. Jesus, left or right?”  
Joe snorted and broke the pencil lead point. “Does it matter?”  
“He’s left handed. If he lost a finger on his left, he can’t beat it for at least a month.”  
Joe paused, mulling over that daunting reality in his head. A smirk grew on his face. “That fucker’s gonna have blue balls for days.”

“Least he deserves for starting a fight he couldn’t win,” Ryan snorted, hair falling all around his face like a halo. Ryan was the only one of the Misfits to break protocol and not have his hair up in the pompadour twenty-four/seven. He always washed out the grease right after Pete couldn’t get up his ass for falling out of uniform and out of line. Ryan also ways filled out his leather jacket better than Joe, though. He had the wide shoulders and tall, thin frame that Joe saw in the magazines. He could see Ryan’s face pressed between glossy pages sometime in the near someday. 

“Where’s your comb?” Ryan asked, looking at Joe with a critical eye.  
“Does that matter?”  
“Your fucking duck butt looks stupider than usual,” he told Joe. “There’s a curl hanging down and it’s pissing me off. Let me fix it before I just get those scissors on your desk and fix it forever, while simultaneously making a newer problem.”  
Joe had known Ryan most of his life. He understood this was a legitimate threat, and wasn’t keen on pissing off Pete. He sighed dramatically, getting up like it was the worst possible thing to ever happen to him, and tossed it at Ryan’s stomach. Ryan caught it, instead, and beckoned Joe over with a long, crooked finger, from where his fingers had been broken by his father when he was young.  
“You know I’m supposed to be a tough guy, yeah?” Joe asked in exasperation even as he sat down in front of Ryan, who turned over and did his work. “Look at us schmucks— Pete, William, and Gabe are down at the passion pit to pick up a paper shaker that Gabe’s been eyeing. 

We should be down there with them.”  
“Ain’t that a bite?” Ryan drawled, looking like he couldn’t care any less than he already did. “You know what we’re doing instead? Passing our classes so we can actually fuckin’ graduate. Unless you wanna be stuck in Chicago for another summer and a half?” Ryan shook his head. “I’d rather be here and be stupid while studying with you than being out there with those guys. Never wanted to be part of these fucking monsters, and I never will.”  
Joe watched him for a moment. “… Don’t let Pete hear you say that.”  
Ryan rolled his eyes, but didn’t respond. He finished finagling Joe's hair into his terms of submission and nodded to himself when he decided he liked it. “I’m surprised you stuck around with me,” he mumbled. “Figured you’d be going after a baby of your own instead of being stuck with a boring bundie.”  
“Nah,” Joe said flippantly. “You’re the only asshole out here that doesn’t actually bug me. And I like your hair.”  
Ryan snorted. “Fuck off.”  
“Fucking make me,” Joe challenged with a grin.  
“I’m good,” Ryan said, sitting up on Joe’s bed. “And when do we get those new wheels? Dallon’s been itching for a new project. He says his dad got new racer blue paint, and he wants to trick out a cherry. Won’t fucking shut up about it.”  
“And that’s just too much for Ryan Ross,” Joe said sarcastically. “Pete says we’re getting two new sets soon, though I’m not sure what that means. He’s probably gonna steal one, buy the other with his dirty money.”  
Ryan grimaced. “And when are we going to be expected to start selling?”  
“You won’t be,” Joe said firmly, letting Ryan know he wasn’t going to let Pete bully Ryan into doing anything he didn’t want to. “Really. If anything, I’ll sell enough to make both our cuts and pretend it’s from you.”  
“God, that’s so much work,” Ryan groaned. “I could just get a real gig at the diner and pretend it came form drugs.”  
“Doesn’t matter how it happens,” Joe said. “You’re not selling shit.”  
Ryan stared up at the ceiling. “… It’s time for me to go home, Joe.”  
Joe nodded, and handed Ryan his knife.  
. . .  
“You and I gotta do something about what those fuckers did to Brendon's hand,” Pete told Joe vehemently as they stood in front of the school, waiting for the bell to ring so Pete could ditch and Joe could try to make something of himself. “They can’t just cut off fingers, Joe. You don’t bring a knife to a fist fight.”  
“Brendon brought a knife to a fist fight,” Joe reminded him with a quirked brow.  
“Yeah, but Brendon wasn’t gonna use it!” Pete hit his arm hard enough to hurt a little. “What the fuck is with your attitude, Joe? You goin’ soft? Or are you just turnin’?” Pete shook his head, looking pissed. “Fuck, can’t even count on my own fuckin’ crew to back me up over this.” He turned back to Joe with almost malice in his expression. “We’re fuckin’ showin’ those assholes you can’t take on one of us alone and not get all of us on their fuckin’ asses after. Like attackin’ one of the heads of Medusa. Another will grow back.”  
“That was Hydra,” Joe corrected with a roll of his eyes. Pete looked like he was going to tear Joe’s eyes out for doing that. “Dude, it was Hydra, the thing with the heads that you cut off and they grow back. Medusa turned people into stone.”  
“You tryin’a' be fucking cheeky with me?” Pete growled.  
Joe just sighed and stepped past Pete when the bell rang. “Let me know when we’re getting back at those assholes. I’ll be there.”  
“And so will Ryan!”  
“No, Ryan won’t,” Joe mumbled. He wasn’t brave enough to outright deny Pete loud enough for him to hear, but saying it out of earshot was enough to defend himself later, when Ryan wasn’t anywhere near that fistfight bullshit.  
He accidentally knocked shoulders against some guy, and wasn’t even going to bother turning around and apologizing, but a hand caught his shoulder. Joe spun around, ready to break someone’s jaw, then paused when he saw it was Andy, who was holding out a pack of cigarettes like it was a chore for him.  
Joe wordlessly took that pack.  
“Seeya around,” Andy rasped, leaving as quickly as he’d been there.  
Joe just nodded and went to class  
. . .  
Pete was waiting outside for them after the final bell, and Ryan had to go with them to whatever fight Pete had planned.  
. . .  
“Who the fuck brought a fucking gun?!” Ryan choked out where he was hiding behind William’s car with Joe. Joe laughed, though, high on the adrenaline and feeling the life or death like drugs. Ryan turned to stare at him like he was crazy, until a bullet ricocheted just overhead. The cops were going to show up ay time now, and Pete just wanted to make sure that whichever Browndell jock fucker had shown up with the gun so they would be arrested. A foolproof plan, except it meant that they had to hang around and give the asshole something he thought was sticking around for and wasting bullets.  
Pete was behind his own car and kept standing, shouting obscenities and being a fucking reckless idiot so they guy wouldn’t leave. Another band, another ricochet, and Ryan wasn’t looking so good. Joe felt a twinge of guilt, knowing Ryan wouldn’t be wearing that leather jacket with the bloody emblem across the back if it weren’t for Joe. He wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t friends with someone as shitty as Joe.  
The scream of sirens suddenly pierced his self deprecation, and Joe let out a whoop of testosterone and adrenaline, before screaming to his feet and fucking running, tugging Ryan along with a bruising grip that he would definitely regret using later. Something whipped past his ear, fast and deadly and tiny, and Ryan let out this cry that Frank figured was surprise. He could hear the police getting out of their cars and shouting things, but he wasn’t going to turn back around and investigate. He wasn’t even going to bother seeing if Pete had made it out, or their cars, though he found out very quickly, when William’s dinged up Firebird screeched to a halt in front of them. Patrick threw open the back passenger door and pulled Ryan inside while Joe slid in through the front passenger window. William peeled out of that scene, laughing with Joe, both of them manic and nearly psychotic.  
“Shit, Ryan, you’re bleeding.”  
Joe’s laughter died faster than Henry Kuttner. He snapped around in his seat and looked back to Ryan, staring at the long, red gash across his neck that was spouting blood like a faucet. Ryan met his eyes, skin white as a sheet and gaunt like a corpse, holding a useless hand to his neck, his expression one of pure resignation.

“It’s no big deal,” Ryan choked out, though his eyes said he was lying.  
“I’ve got a bottle of Seagrams 7 back there,” William told them, looking pretty freaked out now that the term “unscathed” could no longer be applied to the stories they’d tell later.  
“It’ll do the job till we get something strong,” Patrick told them, and Joe was relieved that they had someone as cool and put together as Patrick right now, because Joe was inwardly losing his mind way too much to be of any use. “I’m gonna use this roller derby shirt you’ve got back there, to keep the pressure.” Joe watched Patrick do just that. “Blood’s too slippery to keep any real pressure,” Patrick continued, though it sounded like he was talking to himself at this point. “How you doing, Ryan?”  
“Fucking stellar,” Ryan bit out, still staring into Joe’s eyes like that was the only thing keeping him here. “Am I gonna die?”  
Patrick scoffed, and Joe felt an inkling of relief. “You’re gonna be fine, Ryan. I’m just gonna get this stitched up at my place, okay? We’ll disinfect that there and wrap you up, and you’ll be home in time for the last part of dinner.”  
Ryan probably would’ve rolled his eyes if he wasn’t bleeding profusely. Joe laughed anyways, knowing his friend well enough. Ryan managed the shadow of a grin, and William drove like the devil was behind him. Joe didn’t see any flashes of red and blue, yet, but he was still holding his breath.  
William got them to Patrick’s place, and true to his word, Patrick treated the thing with the precision of a doctor. Joe was glued to Ryan’s side, watching after cringe of pain on his face, taking in each flinch and broken noise, watching every entrance and exit of the needle into Ryan’s skin and the pain that Ryan was hiding with practiced skill. Joe felt worse and worse with each stitch, knowing he was the reason that Ryan had looked pretty damn ready to give up in the car.  
“I’m sorry,” Joe said after they’d decided they weren’t going to go home with Ryan’s skin and clothes covered in blood, and Joe not looking much better. Parick offered them the bed, but Ryan insisted they’d take the floor.  
Ryan shrugged, though the movement was stiff. His entire neck was wrapped up with gauze, and it looked pretty comedic, to be honest. Like a dog in a cone. “You tried to get me out of it to begin with, so that was pretty good of you. Did your best. And you were looking out for me from the start. Didn’t leave me to get shot up. So it’s fine.”  
“Oh golly, you’re not saying fine, are you?” Joe groaned. He and Ryan had issues with the word “fine.” It was a bullshit word when not used to describe some really nice looking baby or whatever. Joe didn’t care much for picking up. But he did care about Ryan, and he knew the word “fine” was the furthest thing from that. “Fuck, Ryan, how long are you gonna hate me for this?” A legitimate question. Ryan could hold a grudge better than the best of them.  
“Just until my birthday,” Ryan sighed, sounding a bit sleepier than he had before. “… I’m gonna need to think up an excuse to tell Spencer tomorrow. Telling him I got shot isn’t going to go over well, in any sort of conversation we could have.”  
“Spencer will buy just about anything. You could tell him a werewolf did it, and he’d fall, hook, line, and sinker.” Ryan didn’t respond immediately, and Joe wondered if that was somehow offensive. Ryan was a fucking tool when it came to Spencer. Almost anything could set him off if it wasn’t said right. “Dude, Ryan… He’s a little bit of an idiot. An idiot with a big heart and his head in all the right places. You know that just as well as I do.”  
“Shut up,” Ryan snorted. “I’m trying to think of a decent excuse. One that he’ll buy because, contrary to your belief, a werewolf just won’t fly. Spencer’s a classy guy, you ass. He won’t just listen to any shitty story that comes out of any mouth.”  
“He’ll listen to the shitty stories out of your mouth,” Joe giggled. “He’ll listen to anything out of your mouth. Because he’s just so fucking smitten.”  
Ryan shoved a pillow in his face, but Joe saw Ryan’s suddenly stony expression just before getting a face full of cotton and feathers. He knew he’d crossed a line, for real this time. It was a stupid thing to say, anyways. If Pete had ever heard Joe suggest that Ryan and Spencer were anything but platonic, it would be Ryan’s head.  
“Sorry, Ryan,” he mumbled, a totally legitimate apology.  
“Get some sleep, Joe,” Ryan said instead of acceptance.  
Joe obediently shut his eyes.  
. . .  
“That’s one fucking wild battle scar you’ve got there,” Pete cackled, grabbing Ryan by the jaw so he could force Ryan’s head to the side and check out the gauze. He even tugged down the wrap so he could see the stitches, a sickening look of pride and arousal on his face. “Joe would always say you weren’t a shitty runaway. Guess he was right.” Pete fixed the bandages haphazardly and pat the side of Ryan’s face three times in a gesture that was supposed to be friendly, but mostly ended up looking like he was three clicks from slapping Ryan across the cheek. Joe bristled protectively from behind Pete. “Consider yourself redeemed. Keep up the good fight.”  
Pete left to go get the details on the state of William’s car, and Ryan hunched his shoulders. “Fucking hate that guy,” Ryan growled. Patrick, beside him, sighed and lightly touched Ryan’s shoulder, then turned and went into the school with tired steps. Joe still hadn’t remembered to thank the guy to his face. It seemed too late to say it without the words coming off as superficial or second-best.  
Ryan was looking past Joe with a grimace. Joe turned to see what he was looking at, then groaned when he recognized the person approaching them.  
Spencer Smith was soft, through and through. Everything about him was curvy and squishy and ,a drummer boy by blood. He had his hair up in the same pompadour Ryan and Joe wore, a style he started copying the day that Ryan came back with the jacket for the first time. 

Joe knew it was Spencer’s ploy to get closer to Ryan, but Ryan ignored that reality. Spencer had been friends with Ryan for almost as long as Joe had. Ryan and Spencer had grown up next door to each other, would sometimes walk home from school together, though that rarely happened these days. Still, Spencer clung to Ryan and Ryan always welcomed it. Unless he had a giant gash on his neck from a bullet.  
“Oh golly, Ryan!” Spencer exclaimed, worried and excited to the point of shaking out of his damn shoes. “Are those bandages? Did someone do that? Was it that stray cat that lives behind the townhouse? Cause that cat almost took out poor Bogart’s eyes the other day, really nicked his ear and beat him up good! Are you okay, Ryan?”  
Joe was giggling behind his hand at the kid, and Ryan lightly smacked Joe’s chest to warn him to shut up. “I’m fine, Spencer,” Ryan told him, voice softening into something affectionate. Joe rolled his eyes. Spencer could cut off Ryan’s legs, and Ryan would still talk to the little fucker like he was an angel, sent to save Ryan. It grated on Joe’s nerves, sometimes, though he knew it was because he was jealous. Fucking kid, asshole, taking his best friend. Joe was gonna fight someone. Probably Spencer.  
“What happened, Ryan?” Spencer asked, reaching up to touch the bandages with light fingertips, a stark contrast to how Pete had touched Ryan’s neck just before. “Are you gonna be okay? You’ll be okay, right? You should come by after school. My mom is making shepherds pie, and the whole family would love to have you over for dinner again. It’s been nearly three months since the last time they saw you!”  
Ryan shook his head. “I’ve gotta take care of some things, Spenc. But thank you.”  
The way Spencer’s face fell was absolutely heartbreaking. Joe rolled his eyes.  
The bell rang and Ryan turned away to leave, sending Joe a curt nod.

Joe did the same once Spencer had left with a ducked head, but again, knocked against the shoulder of someone. And again, it was Andy.  
“Are you doing this on purpose?” Andy asked critically.  
Joe just scowled and went to class.  
. . .  
By a twist of fate, and high school graduation requirements, Joe was taking art this final semester, and he was terrible at it. Terrible, as in, he couldn’t even draw a stick figure to the expectations of his fresh-out-of-university, “art is breathed, no made,” asshole teacher. Mrs. Whatever, Joe had already forgotten her name, was a woman with her pencils permanently shoved up her ass, and there was no way to smooth talk her into better grades, as Joe usually did when he was faced with such a hopeless and dismal course.  
“If you don’t get an A on this final project, you’re failing my class,” the bitch told him. Joe had excused himself and hadn’t bothered waiting for permission. He’d shoved himself out of the classroom through the back door that would have tripped the fire alarm if the damn thing wasn't broken. Outside, it was too hot for his leather jacket, and he tossed the damn thing on the ground, left only his in sleeveless white shirt that he hated wearing. He lit a smoke, relaxed, and then finally heard the familiar hiss of spray paint cans.  
Joe frowned and looked around the corner, to the shady side of the building that was never hit by the sun, and was usually witness to risqué drug deals and shitty hand jobs and finger bangs.  
There was a guy crouched over a huge piece of cardboard, spray painting some mural of a guy with his fist in the air and some light coming from his knuckles. He had on a cape, and everything was waiting in bright, obnoxious colors that made Joe cringe, simply because he was too tired to be stimulated by such boldness.  
Then he saw the greasy hair and realized it was Andy.  
Joe almost hit his head on the wall, because now the guy was really going to think he was doing this shit on purpose. He approached from behind, keeping his footsteps heavy enough to make his presence known and not something worth of a heart attack, a cigarette already out of the nearly empty box Andy had given him just the other day. Yesterday had been very stressful.  
“Hey,” Joe greeted cooly, standing beside Andy’s crouched frame and holding out the cigarette. He heard Andy let out a grunt of recognition, and then Andy was pulling the cig from between his fingertips. He could see a bruise around Andy’s entire neck that hadn’t been there the day before, and the bruises kinda looked like two palms and ten fingers.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” Andy grumbled, sitting back on his haunches and waiting for his cigarette to be lit, which Joe did for him.  
“Oh, totally,” Joe drawled. “Just can’t keep myself away from those dark, mysterious artists.”  
“Fuck you,” Andy said. He went back to painting, looking like he intended on ignoring Joe, even though he’d just been nice enough to share one of his last cigarettes that were technically from Andy to begin with, but no one was keeping score.  
“Who is this schmuck?” Joe asked while gesturing at the cardboard, instead of calling Andy out for being rude. “Is he some sort of fairy? He sure is dressed like one. Didn’t know it was okay to wear clothes that tight in public.”  
“He’s a superhero, and part of my application,” Andy said, sounding a little annoyed. Joe didn’t care all that much.  
“Application to what?” Joe asked, crouching down so he was sitting at Andy's level. He stared at the painting and was impressed with the how fine the line work or whatever it was called was. Joe didn’t know it was possible to make lines that thin using spray paint.  
“To a comic company,” Andy told him like Joe was dragging the words from his very fucking soul. Joe smirked a bit.  
“You’re an artist, right?” he asked, just to make sure. Andy looked to him, brow furrowed, almost offended, which was cool, because Joe didn’t care. “I need some help, man,” Joe told him. “I’ve got this art project, you see? Last one of the year. And I’m really bad at this shit, always have been, and if I don’t get an A on this thing, I’m failing. No matter what I do.” He bit his lip, watching Andy’s face. “Wanna help me out?”  
“I barely even know you,”Andy said, which, yeah, totally fair.  
“But you could know me,” Joe replied. “You could get to know me really well. I’m not asking for that, though, just a little help so I can graduate. What do you say?”  
Andy sighed heavily. “… Sure.”  
Joe perked up. “Yes?”  
“Yes,” Andy replied.  
Joe grinned at pat Andy’s thigh before standing. “Thanks, man. I’ll find you later.” He went back inside with a bright grin, and only barely stopped himself from flipping off the bitch art teacher. She was in for a big fucking surprise with this final project. Joe couldn’t wait.  
. . .  
“You need to change this as often as possible,” Patrick told Ryan after school, at the garage, looking over the stitches. “You can get stuff from the Safeway that’s down the road from the school, they’ve got nice people, and my mom works there, so she can help you out if you need it.”  
Ryan just nodded, seeming to be very stiff, but Joe could tell by how Ryan was leaning towards Patrick’s touch the more he spoke was saying more than words could. Ryan had always liked Patrick because Patrick never raised his voice. Joe liked Patrick because, not only was Patrick intimidating and able to hold his own in any fight and fluent in apple butter, Patrick liked Ryan. That went pretty fucking far in Joe’s book. He was sure Ryan also liked Patrick because Patrick was nice to Frank. He and Ryan were on the same current like that.  
“You just need to clean and wrap it once and night and it’ll heal like a dog,” Patrick continued, rewrapping Ryan’s neck. “… But, I’m sorry. I think it’s gonna scar.”  
Ryan didn’t show any outward reaction, so Joe did it for him. He cursed sharply and kicked the fender of the shitty Ford next to him that Gabe was trying to soup up. Joe knew better than to take his anger out on anything of actual value. He threw a fist at the air, ready to find something or someone to punch, when he heard Ryan give that long, loud sigh that mean he was getting annoyed with Joe. Joe whirled around with a scowl and was ready to blow up when Pete slammed in, all chrome and grease, laughing with yellow teeth.  
“Hey bean!” Pete shouted to everyone in the garage, with was Patrick, Ryan, Joe, and William. Patrick stood from where he was checking out Ryan’s neck. “How’re my scooches and slodges? Everyone feeling good after yesterday’s little scrimmage?” He giggled, high pitched and manic. “I’ve got some news for us. Words that I think will be sounds of sex to your ears.”  
Joe figured Pete was high. “What’s the word?” he asked, just to keep Pete talking. Gabe and Brendon and Josh all filed in behind Pete, heading to William’s shot up car with hammers and metal and paint.  
“Y’all know that shuck who brought the gun and marked up a poor baby Ryan here? Word from the bird is that he’s out of jail on bale.”  
“How is that a good thing?” Gabe asked calmly, always so fucking calm. Even his eyes were always calm. “We want the person with the gun and the death rattle to stay behind bars, Wentz. How the hell does him being topside help us?”  
“Do you know how hard it is to get back at someone when they’re in prison?” Pete asked rhetorically, sounding like he thought he was so smart. “That half cent hub cap is gonna wish he was behind ten feet of concrete once we get to him. No one messes up a Misfit and gets away with it.”

“Or, we could let him off the hook and focus on getting the bread to hop up the 1932,” Ryan suggested, low and under his breath, like he wanted to make his opinion known, but not known to Pete. Ryan had his eyes cast up, lying he was trying to see if Pete had actually heard him. Pete had.  
“You got something you wanna say, you say it loud enough for all of us to hear,” Pete told Ryan in a deceptively even tone. His arms were crossed over his chest.  
Ryan shrugged. “I’m just saying, I don’t see much of a point in goin’ after him, all at the ready. He’s been in jail, and that place sucks. The law already taught him not to fuck with people like that. If we go after him, the rest of those bulls will be at our throats, and they’ll all have guns too. We should just let it slide. If they want beef, they’ll come after us on their own, and we’ll be ready.”  
Pete was still expressionless. “What does the back of your jacket look like, Ryan?” he asked.  
Ryan stiffened, and Joe knew this wasn’t good. “It was just a suggestion, man, I didn’t—”  
“What does the back of your jacket look like?”  
Ryan paused. “… There’s no rose.”  
The back of the Misfit’s jackets had a large skull with pointed, vampire teeth, and empty, gaping eyes, while the jaw was hung wide open. Everyone’s jacket was the same, save Pete’s. Pete was the leader of their gang, so his skull had a rose between its teeth.  
“No rose,” Pete repeated like he was thinking, even going so far as to stroke his chin. “You think that could mean something, Ryan? About ideas? Illuminations? Think maybe that rose could say something about where you belong in this conversation.”  
“I’m sorry, Pete…”  
“Bit late for sorry, Ryan,” Pete told him with a cruel chuckle.  
“Pete, he’s drugged out of his mind,” Patrick interrupted suddenly, standing short but intimidating between Ryan and Pete. “He barely knows which way’s up. Let’s just let him off this one time, yeah? Beating him to shit for this would just be useless. He can’t learn anything when he’s on what I gave him.” A huge fucking lie. Ryan had turned down medication. But at least Patrick was doing something to keep fists from flying.  
Pete snorted, but uncrossed his arms and took a step back. Literally everyone was pretty intimidated by Patrick when he stood to his full height like he was doing now. Pete sniffed and flicked his nose at Ryan, then turned to face William. “Gabe and Josh and Brendon are fixing up your wheels so when the police come around, we can prove we weren’t anywhere near no bullets.”  
“What about Ryan’s neck?” William asked.  
Pete shrugged. “Say he got a nasty hickey from some ugly broad. Say he’s embarrassed. They wouldn’t pry. Keep Ryan from the heat entirely if you can. We’ve handled worse shade than this. You know what to do.”  
William nodded. “And, uh… the painter? He wasn’t at the regular pick up.”  
Joe stood up straight, having never heard of a painter before.  
Pete’s expression became animalistic. He shoved his finger in William’s face with deadly intent. “You don’t say that outside my ride. And you get him to my pad by tonight, no matter what that piece of shit says. We clear?”  
“Crystal,” William bit out.  
Joe looked to Ryan, meaning to ask with his eyes who the painter was, but Ryan looked a bit too close to passing out. Joe winced when he remembered he was a shitty friend. And he still had to find Andy. They left the garage later that night with the general idea of fucking that jock up so hard his bones broke.  
. . .  
Joe went to school early the next morning, fully intending on catching Andy before he could even start his name and hog him for help on the art project. He was serious about getting an A because he was serious about passing that fucking class. He didn’t want to repeat a year and force Ryan to hang around a year longer before they bailed on this city entirely. Ryan had been talking about making bringing Patrick along, and Joe was looking at places to move to once they got their high school escape papers, but none of that would matter if Joe didn’t graduate.  
He looked around the school, scaring his economics teacher with his punctuality, found a music kid watching another pair of music kids trading spit on the steps, saw a drug deal between the gym coach and an honor roll girl, and then he kept looking. He didn’t really care about careless debauchery, especially on campus. He just wanted to find Andy and interrogate him on ideas for the art project. It was supposed to be a 2-D project with any media, as long as they’d learned about it in class during the year. It had to be on 12 by 18 inch paper and had to have at least one figure, one building, and could not be monochromatic, whatever that meant. Joe wasn’t a person who could be inspired by a sunset or a person or anything, really. He didn’t have big and great ideas. If he did, he’d be the one with the rose on his jacket.  
Joe knew Andy would be here, or he should be, because the bitchy art teacher had said he would be when he’d mentioned running into the guy out back. Andy reportedly showed up early every day to work on one project or another, because he was apparently really into art and stuff and his parents weren’t home for some reason, so he came here. Joe could appreciate the need to be outside of an empty home. He then wondered if he should check out back, where he’d first found Andy.  
Joe decided that was a good idea and went out back, dragging his hand across the brick wall as he walked. He considered pulling out a cigarette, but his English teacher hated him when he smelt like smoke. Joe paused when he saw a big hunk of blank cardboard, and knew he was seeing Andy’s project from behind. He didn’t hear a hiss of spray paint, but he figured it wasn’t a big deal. He rounded the cardboard with a half assed greeting prepared, then froze.  
Andy was sitting on the floor, crying softly. His throat was black and blue and purple and fucked up. Joe could hear how he was struggling to breathe, and it hurt just to listen to. He didn’t have paint anywhere near him, and his school supplies was scattered beside him like he’d tripped and never bothered tog get up.  
“Jesus,” Joe breathed, shocked by how fucked up this poor guy looked.  
Andy’s head snapped up, and he looked angry when he saw Joe. He probably didn’t like to be caught crying. “Fuck off,” Andy choked out, voice sounding worse than it had the day before. Joe wondered if his fucked up voice was from the cigarettes or the daily choking.  
“Who keeps leaving bruises all over you?” Joe asked, not at all intimidated by Andy’s anger. He’d been faced with much worse by the hands of his own “friends.” “Dude, you should put, like, stuff on that. Is there stuff for bruises? Cause those look really bad.”  
Andy’s lower lip started to quiver, and that was when Joe sat down beside him.  
“Andy,” Joe murmured, just staring at the marks. “… Who’s doing this to you?” He figured that, even if it was some weird sex thing, it couldn’t be consensual. Not with how Andy was crying from the aftermath. You didn’t cry after sex you enjoyed, and sex that you didn’t enjoy wasn’t a good thing. Joe couldn’t see Andy letting some girl to this to him, but what else could there be?  
Andy shook his head. “… A really bad person, Joe. Just a really bad person.”  
Joe decided it would be best if they left it at that for then.


End file.
